


One for the Media

by DaydreamNightmare



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fuckbuddies, Raven being a doll, Unplanned Pregnancy, and they were ROOMMATES, oh my god they were roommates, very brief mention of abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16179566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamNightmare/pseuds/DaydreamNightmare
Summary: It happens, like, organically, she would say.Bellamy gets kicked out of his apartment suddenly when the absentee landlord actually finally meets him and realizes that he's not as white as she thought he was, and Clarke just so happens to be in search of a roommate. They agree to bury the hatchet, or at least to stop swinging it around wildly, and he moves in.





	One for the Media

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has it all: loosely developed ideas, serious pacing issues, the author assuming everyone understands the way her brain works, complete lack of knowledge of actual ER protocols, an ending fit for a sequel that will probably never happen and possible problems with tenses because English is hard. Have fun!

It happens, like, organically, she would say.

Bellamy gets kicked out of his apartment suddenly when the absentee landlord actually finally meets him and realizes that he's not as white as she thought he was, and Clarke just so happens to be in search of a roommate. They agree to bury the hatchet, or at least to stop swinging it around wildly, and he moves in.

It is, given their propensity to jump at each others' throat, quite a peaceful co-existence. Bellamy works during the day and after work stays at the university to finish his dissertation, and Clarke works nights. At most, they find themselves really sharing the space on the rare weekend their schedules collide, and they find their interactions become noticeably better when lubricated with alcohol.

Given  _her_ propensity to make stupid choices when drunk, it kind of doesn't surprise her when a conversation in which she's raging about Finn and he's raging about Echo turns into warm, sloppy kisses and awkward, teenage-like groping. Okay, it surprises her that their shitty exes are apparently what does it for them, but that's neither here nor there, really.

It's hot and heavy and uncoordinated, hardly the suavest she's ever experienced in terms of technique, but by the end of it she's shivering and her underwear is uncomfortably wet, and Bellamy is swearing as she sucks a hickey into his neck.

''God fucking damn – damn it, Clarke," he moans and stiffens beneath her and she dissolves into a fit of giggles.

"That's so under-the-bleachers-high-school of you, Blake," she says, nips at his ear and feels hot all over when he whimpers pathetically and reflexively grips her hips.

"Give me a moment," he says, head dropping onto the couch behind him, the movement exposing his neck. "And I'll show you a better time."

"I don't think that's in the cards tonight," she says, forcing herself to stop moving and sit away from his chest. His hands prevent her from moving completely, but the foot of distance seems like a room away.

"Just, hold on, wait," he takes deep breath, sits up, pulls her closer. "Okay, not tonight, but I'm fairly certain this is something that can be discussed later, right?"

He's drunker than she is, she realizes, and dread fills the pit of her stomach. His eyes are earnest, which they rarely are with her, and his mouth is lifted in an approximation of a smile, and in a short moment – _this is trouble, Clarke_.

"Yeah," she runs her hand through his hair. "Definitely."

-.-

The morning after is awkward and embarrassed and red-faced, with attempts at humour that don't sit quite right. They manage to avoid one another for around a week, until it's Saturday again, and they're at the bar because it's Octavia's birthday. It's an awful idea, because while she might not be willing to admit, she spent the week heavily using her imagination and her fingers, and she can hardly look at Bellamy without warmth blossoming in her chest.

She takes care not to get hammered, but it's all for naught as she sits astride Bellamy in the taxi the moment they enter it, and by the time they arrive at the building, his zipper is lowered and they're apologizing to the cabbie. By the time they're at the door, she's hoping her neighbours aren't as nosy as usual, because her dress is hopelessly not serving its purpose, and Bellamy's hand is on her crotch, pressing into the warmth.

They nearly fall into the apartment, and she laughs when he stubs his toe against the doorframe.

"Bathroom," she manages to gasp out, "we gotta wash our hands."

He bursts into laughter as he's kissing her. "That's what's on your mind now?"

"UTIs are terrible and annoying," she breathes out as he bites her neck. "Bathroom."

His breath is warm against her skin when he laughs against, but he steers them towards the bathroom. It's surreal as she's practically dripping and trying to focus on washing their hands.

"Up to your standards?" he asks, showcasing his freshly-washed hands and Clarke smacks him up the head before jumping on him.

And this time, it's nothing like an awkward fumble under the bleachers.

-.-

It continues. They aren't dating or whatever – they're still cohabitating, and they still argue somewhat, and their friends roll their eyes at them. It seems as though nothing has changed, aside from the fact that every so often, they fuck. It's definitely a pleasant outcome, considering everything. She's thinking about docking his rent.

She wonders, briefly, as her eyes are closing and Bellamy's kissing the back of her neck how long this will last, because with their combined histories, it sure doesn't feel promising.

She finds herself getting annoyed easily at him – which they now resolve with passionate, wild banging against the door or the headboard, or the table if need be. She notices a difference within him, and she's not certain if she's imagining things or if she's right, but he seems softer, looser, more relaxed. He'll let her prop her feet up in his lap, and even give her a footrub if she's not careful (if she sometimes lets it go further, that's a different thing).

It's too close. It's too stifling. It's too – it's too much, that's what it is. Sometimes, when he thinks she doesn't notice, he has this look on his face that's far too close for comfort.

It all comes to a head when she gets the flu. Sure it's nice to have someone worry and fret around you when you're throwing up your whole entire existence, but the entirety of – the months and months of whatever their relationship is now, the sneaking around, the confusing, stifling feelings that choke her up, the old insecurities and trauma combined with a fever and nausea – it all just spills out.

"Get away from me," she moans into the toilet hair uncomfortably sticking to her sweaty face.

"Come on, Clarke," he says gently, pulls her hair away from her face.

"No, I mean it," she says, swallowing the bile and tearing away from him. "Don't you have a job or writing your thesis or something? Just leave me the fuck alone, Bellamy."

"I'm not going to just-"

"I don't need you," she grits through her teeth. "I'm not some poor damsel in distress for you to satisfy your saviour complex with."

"I never said you were," he shakes his head slightly, but she's already too angry.

"You don't have to, it's your thing," she says, running her hands over her face. "Octavia didn't need you anymore, so you turned to Echo, Echo doesn't need you anymore, so you turned to me, but I never needed you and I certainly don't – God – I don't need you now. Leave me the fuck alone."

He gets up slowly, face unreadable.

"Call me when you're feeling better," he says quietly before exiting, which Clarke follows with another bout of throwing up.

-.-

"Dude, this has been going on for too long," Raven says, unceremoniously bursting into her room.

"Go away," Clarke mumbles, hissing when Raven opens up her curtains and the windows, letting the sunshine in.

"Nope," Raven says smoothly, jumping onto the bed and reaching towards Clarke. "You don't feel feverish. Are you feeling better?"

"I feel fine," Clarke groans, turning away from her friend. "Stop moving the bed."

"Bellamy said you've been sick for close to two weeks now," Raven ignores her, feeling her forehead and pushing a thermometer into her mouth.

"That had better be brand fucking new," Clarke says, unintelligibly, around the thermometer and Raven simply shrugs. The talking makes the thermometer slide and Clarke's gag reflex kicks in. "Oh-"

Out of nowhere Raven manages to produce a bucket and before she knows it, Clarke is crying and gagging, bile filling her mouth.

"Look, babe, we're going to the hospital, okay?" Raven says, gently but firmly pulling her into a sitting position.

"I don't wanna go," Clarke sobs out. "I wanna stay here and be fucking miserable."

"You can be fucking miserable on the way to the hospital," Raven replies shortly and Clarke snorts through her tears. "Come on, babe. Up you get. Jesus, when did you last shower? No, don't answer that..."

Raven keeps a steady stream of (admittedly one-sided) conversation on the drive to the hospital as Clarke valiantly tries not to throw up again. The nurse seems bored and disinterested as Raven loudly proclaims that they need a doctor and that Clarke has the stubbornest flu on Earth.

"Any existing medical conditions?" the nurse asks, checking off boxes, and Clarke shakes her head. "Any medications? Drug usage?"

"No," Clarke says and next to her Raven sighs impatiently.

"She's been having the flu-"

"Ma'am, this is protocol, there's not much I can do," the nurse clips before turning back to Clarke. "Is there a possibility you're pregnant?"

Clarke snorts in a very unattractive manner. "No."

"Are you sure?" the nurse asks again, pen hovering. "Date of last period?"

"I... I think I have it on my phone," Clarke says, patting her pockets. "Damn it, I forgot it at home."

The nurse sighs heavily and turns to grab a plastic cup and a strip of paper. "The bathroom is down the hall. Let me know if it changes colour."

Clarke doesn't even have to pee that hard, but she knows how important protocol is, even though it sucks, and how this is the sane thing to do. Raven follows behind her like a watchdog, practically securing a completely empty bathroom for Clarke to attempt to pee in a cup.

"This is ridiculous," Raven rants outside the stall. "You look like death warmed over. You haven't gotten laid since Christmas. Unless this is literally the next Saviour, it's ridiculous to force you to basically pee all over your hand."

Clarke feels a stab of guilt – she has gotten laid since Christmas. To use one of Raven's favourite expressions, in the name of being correct, Clarke had been getting dicked down six ways until Sunday quite regularly for a while. But she was careful, they were careful, every time. It would be ridiculous.

She pees all over her hand, as Raven predicted, and sticks the strip inside the cup.

"Am I supposed to close this or like bring it with me, because-" her voice dies in her throat when she looks at the cup in which there sits a pregnancy test strip which is rapidly turning offensively blue.

"Nah, she didn't mention bringing it back with you, just to tell her if by some miracle the thing changed colours," Raven's voice feels like she's hearing it from behind a wall instead of a dinky wooden bathroom door. "Which, by the way, I'm calling shotgun on the whole "who gets to tell your story to the media" thing, okay?"

Clarke doesn't respond, too busy trying to remember when she last had her period. It had to have been at the end of June, right? But, no, no, she remembers she wore white to the Fourth of July party, which – why wasn't that concerning then? What was she thinking?

"Babe, are you okay?" Raven knocks and brings Clarke from her reverie.

"I..."

"Don't tell me it turned blue or something, that would be the funniest thing, can you imagine? Getting a defective pregnancy test now?''

''I don't... I don't think it's defective, Raven," Clarke says hoarsely, and Raven, for once, doesn't immediately respond with something witty.

"It's negative?"

"Not... Um, not quite," at this point, there's no denying it. Clarke feels tears fill her eyes. "I, uh... Could you... Um."

"Oh my God, Clarke, what the hell?"

Indeed.

-.-

When Clarke manages to exit the stall and wash her hands, Raven is quiet as she walks her to the nurse's desk. The woman barely looks up.

"Do you have a preferred OB/GYN or do you need a referral?" the nurse asks and Clarke just barely manages to ask for a referral.

Three hours later, they're back in Raven's car and Clarke is back to trying not to throw up.

"So," Raven speaks, first time since the bathroom. "You're pregnant."

"Mmhm," Clarke says, pulling the safety belt across her body.

"Eight whole weeks," Raven continues. "Who in the everloving fuck did you fuck eight weeks ago?"

Clarke has no desire to answer that.

"What even happened eight weeks ago? What the hell were we all doing?" Raven continues talking to herself. "When did you even have the _time_ to fuck someone, for crying out loud, you work all night and sleep all day, the only people you come in contact with are the gang and Bellamy, but you live with h- _oh my God,_ Clarke, are you _kidding_ me?" as if Raven's screaming wasn't manic enough, the slamming on the breaks and the car jerking forward violently certainly ups the drama.

"Hey!" Clarke shouts, white-knuckled grip on the door. "Are you trying to kill us all here?!?"

"Don't even _start_ with me, missy," Raven snaps back at her, eyes calculating as she starts the car again. "Oh my God, Clarke. Are you literally kidding me right now?!"

"I wish I knew what I was kidding you -"

"Oh, we're gonna play stupid now?" Raven asks flatly and Clarke has the decency to feel shame. "I mean, the stereotype is that pregnant women aren't the smartest, but honestly Clarke, between you and Bellamy I refuse to believe that this genetic mixture isn't making you smarter as it grows."

Clarke stares out the window, biting her lip so hard it almost bleeds. Raven chances a look at her on a red light, but wisely chooses not to comment any further.

Raven drops her off at home, follows her to the apartment and evades Bellamy's prying questions as Clarke makes a beeline for her room.

" _The woman is sick, Bellamy,_ " she can hear Raven through the door. " _We don't need you catching the flu as well_."

She lies down on the bed and pulls a pillow over her head. Some time later, her door gently opens and she feels Raven lie on the bed behind her, molding her body around hers.

"It's gonna be okay, babe," she says quietly, and Clarke nods, biting in a sob. "Whatever you want, we'll make it happen, okay?"

She turns in Raven's arms and cries into her shirt until she falls asleep.

-.-

When she wakes up, it's dark outside and she's alone. Her head hurts and her throat is dry, and her face is uncomfortably tingly from the dried down tears. Raven's gone, but she's cleaned up her room for her a little, and tossed a light blanket over her, and Clarke sends her a quick message of thanks.

She sneaks out to the bathroom with towels in hand, closing the door behind her and ducking under the shower. Under the spray of water, her hands drift down her body. Her boobs don't feel larger, but they do feel painful, and her belly was never rock hard, but now feels softer. Is it pushed out more than usual? Her body seems weak to her, but the doctor already told her that she's losing weight instead of gaining it because of her constant throwing up. She may have had the flu before, but now it's just the hyperemesis, and she should come back next week for another check up.

She wonders how it's doing. She had to have drank in the past few weeks. She knows the importance of the first trimester. And then there's the flu – what if it somehow harmed it?

A more immediate question pops up – what is she going to do? Adoption's not an option, so there's really only two things left, and she's already had an abortion; she'd rather not go through that again.

"God damn it," she swears softly, poking the barely-there curve in her abdomen, interrupted by a timid knock at the door. "Y-yeah?"

"Are you okay in there?" Bellamy's voice is like chocolate-covered nougat in that moment, and her knees buckle. "Raven said you're still sick, and I know you told me to fuck off, but if you feel like you're fainting or something -"

"Do you wanna come in?" she interrupts him, and the silence that follows her question is loaded. "I just- you don't have to, I'm fine, but if you, like, need to shower, strictly platonically, it's more eco-frien- oh," she's interrupted by the sound of a belt buckle hitting the floor.

In less than a minute, he moves the curtain and enters, his eyes carefully trained on her face. She feels ridiculously naked – which is ridiculous, since she _is_ naked, and he's seen her naked plenty times, but she feels her heart is in her throat.

"Hi," she says, subconsciously holding her arms across her body.

"Hi there," he says quietly, barely under the water. "Are you ok?"

"No," she tells him honestly, voice as raw as her emotions. "You need a wash."

He lets her pull him under the spray, bows his head so she can shampoo his hair and lets her run her hands all over his body. It's by far the least sexual thing they've done, and they're both naked, which is a feat.

"Clarke," he says as she washing him down. "Do you maybe wanna talk?"

"What's there to talk about?" she asks pitifully, turning away from him to grab her hair shampoo. She hears him sigh before his hands slips across her back and around her waist, clasping together just under her belly button. She stills in his arms as he rubs circles into her skin. Of course. Why did she think she'd be able to hide it for one minute?

"I'm sorry I said you have a pathological need to be needed," Clarke says, hand coming down to rest on top of his.

"I mean, you're not wrong," he says, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice. "You have a pathological need to _not_ need anyone, so I guess that makes us quite the pair, huh?"

She laughs a little, leans back against his chest.

"What do you want to do, Clarke?" he asks quietly, hands like burning coal on her stomach. "I'm behind you, 100%, you just need to tell me what's gonna happen."

She sighs, closes her eyes.

"I think I want to keep it."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!


End file.
